


electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;

by BL4CKB377Y, quietdown



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alien Planet, Child Soldiers, Dramatic Effect, Economics, Found Family, Grief, Language/Culture, M/M, Medicine, Military, Poetry, Politics, Rebuilding, Refugees, Resistance, Snarky Academics, Space Battles, Space Opera, War, War Crimes, Xenophobia, collaborative, domestic abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-10-19
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,408
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27089746
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BL4CKB377Y/pseuds/BL4CKB377Y, https://archiveofourown.org/users/quietdown/pseuds/quietdown
Summary: The hand is a voice that can sing what the voice will not. What is alive and what isn’t and what should we do about it? Theories: about the nature of the thing. And of the soul. Because people die. The fear: that nothing survives. The greater fear: that something does. /  The man thought to himself,One of these birds is not my bird. The birds agreed.
Relationships: Brandt Grayson/Alan Ganna, OC/OC, OMC/OMC





	electrons deify one razorblade into a mountainrange;

**Author's Note:**

> [i](https://web.cs.dal.ca/~johnston/poetry/pitmonster.html). pity this busy monster manunkind, e.e. cummings  
> [ii](https://poets.org/poem/language-birds). the language of the birds, richard siken  
> iii. this chapter is published half-finished in order to avoid being deleted

The shuttlebay doors whoosh open slowly, revealing a long, gleaming line of extra-orbital vehicles primed and ready for flight, and it doesn't take Brandt long to figure out which death-trap is his.

He's been assigned a civilian contractor from the sciences department, a Dr. Ganna whom he hasn't had the-and I use this term loosely-" _pleasure_ " of meeting yet. This is rectified near-immediately when the man, almost tall enough for his head to poke up over the edge of the craft, turns, a PADD in hand and arches a thick eyebrow at him, glaring from indeterminately hazel eyes.

G-d only knows why they assigned a paper pusher to a frontier mission, but Dr. McCoy just rolls his eyes when questioned and maintains that _Alan is completely competent in his field and he's been on Laile's Economic Reform Council for the last fifteen years_ \- which is code for _Alan's probably the only person on board who knows what the fuck they're getting themselves into_ , but, you know, politer and more CMO-like.

Needless to say, Brandt has been volun _told_ and not requested for their jaunt into Irune territory, and he's been outright ordered to suck it up and deal with his new bestie. Said individual returns to studying his PADD, muttering dismissively-as if Brandt's a trifling inconvenience he's magnanimously agreed to shoulder,

"Grayson, I take it?"

Brandt is vaguely familiar with Ornarans and their history. He's not particularly looking forward to this assignment, but he respects McCoy enough to not argue or complain. So he shows up to greet his new ward, and can already tell this is gonna be a trial. Thankfully, Brandt was gifted with an abundance of patience. "And you must be Dr. Ganna. Welcome to the _Enterprise_."

Ganna's head tilts and he finally looks up from his work, the fingertips of an _uninjured_ hand (Brandt notices that his right; the one the PADD is resting on listlessly, is covered by a black orthopedic brace)-still swiping over the crystal-glass of the PADD as he considers the man who'd intruded on his space. Rolling his eyes, he stuffs the PADD back into his pocket and retrieves his cane, leaning on it heavily as he approaches the vehicle. Indeed not a person particularly _suited_ for field work, but McCoy was adamant. "Your observational skills are astounding," is what he replies with in a deep, gravelly tone that vibrates from his chest. "We should get moving. Wouldn't want to start an intergalactic crisis."

God. Brandt was so glad this guy didn't turn out to be a huge fucking dick... oh wait. He doesn't reply beyond a nod and a clench of his teeth, then their vehicle is in gear and they're under way.  
  
So it turns out that _Laile_ is about as front-line as you’re going to get, these days. The whole planet-hell, the whole _system_ is in turmoil. These people are barely past the X-ray stage and they’re blowing one another up in the name of whichever precept of justice they deem superior. And it’s their job to pick up the pieces.  
  
The shuttle is small enough to be considered _stuffed-into_ , and a pilot who I’m sure nothing bad will happen to ( _ **! ! !**_ ) let’s call him Ayad Fasih and Alan-strapped into the bench just outside the cockpit in order to guide their coordinates-is chattering back and forth to him through the slat that protects Fasih from the shuttle interior-in one of the older Earth languages, that’s harsh and guttural and very much resembles Vulcan (so maybe it’s just _Federation Standard_ people who suck at it, instead of the entire human species, but potato, tomato).  
  
And like most pieces of plot technology, for the sake of convenience we’ll conclude that the shuttle’s UT is on the blink, for just random reasons, don’t think about it. Brandt and Alan are side-by-side one another, though, with barely enough room to breathe surrounded by medical cargo they’re ferrying over.  
  
Fasih laughs heartily and they loop around a few loose asteroid fragments, and Alan’s fingers tighten around the metal bench, eyes squeezed shut. He’s never taken himself to be nervous flier-on Earth he zipped around in shuttlecraft and low-orbital vehicles all the time, but something about being in a floating glorified tin-can out in the vast expanse of abso-fucking- _lutely_ nothing’s just got his goat today.  
  
He emits a short, sharp breath that Brandt recognizes is a sign of distress in most species, but he maintains a nearly Vulcan degree of control over himself. He doesn’t complain, he doesn’t move, he just sits and endures it.

"Your first time in a makeshift land vehicle?" 

Ganna lets out a sharp snort. "Hardly. Shut up." His gaze flicks up from the floor-half where his head is nearly buried in his knees, and he drags his hand through his hair, sending wild curls all over the place. 

Brandt chuckles, and maybe he might be momentarily distracted by the man's curls, and maybe in that moment he might have wished it was his hand... maybe... shut up! Brandt smirks and shakes his head. "Want a dramamine?" 

"Literally yes," Ganna exhales dryly, setting aside his PADD and finally _looking_ at Brandt-acknowledging him as another sentient being sitting next to him. Fasih just laughs, muttering something in Arabic under his breath that makes Ganna jam his right elbow into his left, tilting his chin up aggressively. It's only met with more laughter, echoing through the cockpit. " _Verpiss dich und geh sterben_ ," he rolls his eyes at the pilot. He ignores Fasih and returns his attention to Brandt, waving a hand dismissively at the door separating them from the other occupant. "Ignore him. He's an asshole." Okay, _he_ was an asshole, too. Listen. "I'll take that dramamine."

Brandt was obviously missing something here, but he wasn't upset about it. At Ganna's request he pulled out his medical bag and sifted through it a little before pulling out a small white packet and handed it to him. "That should help... need some water?" 

He tosses it back and swallows it easily, an answer to Brandt's question-if a silent one. "Have you been to _Laile_ before?" he asks, sitting up straighter. It's part of the reason he was assigned; to make sure that Dr. Grayson had all the available information he would need to provide adequate medical care, and not get himself blown up in the process. The answer to his question is self-evident, frankly-no Federation citizen steps foot on _Laile_ without reason, and those that do tend to quickly find themselves outnumbered and outgunned. It's an inexplicable curiosity that Ganna himself hasn't fallen under that distinction.

Brandt closes his bag and sets it aside. "Can't say that I have. Any places I shouldn't miss?" 

"If the Federation were smart, we'd miss all of it. But the Laile government asked for our assistance, and we're obligated to render it. Most of the planet is entrenched in a bitter war. We're here to provide medical assistance, of course-that's you," he points at Brandt. "And I'll be coordinating with the liaison to develop societal systems models. You've also been asked, as I understand it, to provide a comprehensive medical evaluation of Ratan Polis. I'll be accompanying you for this as well, as I'm part of Polis's extraction team."

Brandt listened and understood. He was here to set up a triage of sorts. Of sorts. Basically he was supposed to make sure they had adequate medical facilities, supplies, and staff. "Sounds about right... So how'd you get mixed up in all this?"

"I'm an economist," he explains. "One of the best in the Federation." There's no mistaking-Alan Ganna is proud of his work-of his accomplishments. "My field of study deals with-" he contemplates going off on a spiel, but thinks better of it at the last second. "-all of this."

"Well, you came highly recommended, so...." His smile is crooked. "Glad you're on the job."

"That makes one of us," Ganna gripes-predictable."Laile is..." His hand waves as if warding off an irritating insect. "Struggling," he settles on. "And Polis is one of the primary defendants in the CACSI protocols. He's a fucking piece of shit, to be frank, but we have our orders and we're expected to treat him humanely. He's also highly manipulative, so be careful not to talk to him too much. We'll be meeting with the LR liaison as well, Dr. Hiram Maitland, who also serves as one of the plaintiffs."


End file.
